Same Ol’ Saturday Night:

After a particularly New Yorkish afternoon of coffee, Bloomingdale’s, and strolling hand in hand with my mommy, I found myself without plans and without much inspiration as to what constituted a hopping Saturday night this weekend around. Resigning to spending a quiet night with myself, I settled for a sushi / movie date with one of my favorite people...myself. I ventured out, intent upon seeing some feel-good romantic comedy, the kind with two irresistable leading characters, both with adorable haircuts and fabulous on screen chemistry. Well, imagine my surprise when The Devil Wears Prada turned up sold out and I found myself wandering over to the 12th street cinema on Second Ave, the same theater from which I had dejectedly dismissed myself after being boons waggled into seeing Eternal, a lesbian/vampire flick masquerading as an artistic think piece.

Having read a stellar review in the Times earlier today, I was happy to settle for the documentary Man Push Cart, a genre of film that I happen to adore, especially when on date with a woman as ingaged in post-viewing discussion and analysis as I myself am.

I adore taking myself to the movies, putting my jacket across my lap, my feet up on the arm rest of the chair before me, and enjoying the snacks I smuggled in along with a thermos of honey lemon tea. Man Push Cart turned out to be fabulous…however, an uplifting documentary it was not and I left the theater in a depressed state, feeling myself the emotional equivalent to Ahmed, the film's star, a Pakistani owner/operator of one, eventually stolen coffee cart stationed on 34th street.

I oftentimes avoid movies that will seemingly put me in a “funk” but this time, I sat back and let the weird feelings wash over me. The film made me feel lonely, purposeless and simultaneously grateful for my place in this city and this world. The contradictory nature of my emotions was confusing and resulted in a numbed, empty feeling.

When I got home I hopped into the shower, letting the water run extra hot, hoping it would elicit some feeling whilst it turned my skin lobster red. Out of the steam and into my pjs I went, padding into my room to find upon my desk a single yellow rose, my favorite flower, a beautiful gesture from my beautiful roommate. There it was, I felt something…I felt love.

An hour later, I am centered and contented to sit with the lingering despondent sentiments. The memory of Ahmed and his stolen coffee cart is almost gone, replaced with hot water, tomato and basil on a mini bagel from Trader Joe’s, and Sex and the City Season 2 on dvd.

This evening, whilst engrossed in a particularly challenging session of my hip-hop dance class[1], my fellow classmates and I were hastily interrupted by a harried Palladium gym keeper who spastically sputtered at us to evacuate the building poste haste.

Out I trotted, clad only in a tank top and sweatpants, and saddened by the fact that I was breaking one of my personal rules of stylistic responsibility…namely, to never exit the building in which I reside clad in sweatpants that are not of designer make.
Despite aforementioned upset, I emerged onto the street, along with the rest of Palladium, all of us wondering exactly what had caused our immediate expulsion from our beloved building.
Just as I was begining to feel cold and worried, my good fortune brought out onto Thirteenth Street my radiant roommate.

Reunited, we quickly deduced that the aforementioned “to do” was the result of a large chunk of steel that had fallen from a crane in our “backyard” (third avenue) landing on a taxi cab and squashing it. Thank the Lordy nobody was seriously injured but the debacle has left us with one rather unstable crane now threatening collapse.

Not knowing how long we would be out in the cold (and today really was quite cold) Richa and I decided to make the most of our evacuated hours and promptly resolved to do what any self respecting New York women would do in such a situation. That’s right, we persevered despite my unfortunate attire, the various blockaded streets, and the freezing cold and set out for our neighborhood nail salon.
An hour and a half later, with tips tinted pink and velvet red respectively (I shall leave it to the reader to wonder who chose the bottle labeled “bubblegum” and who picked “red wine”) we emerged onto the street.
I about blew a gasket when we found ourselves unable still to enter our home. Again, Richa and I did what us Manhattan mavens do in the face of adversity; we went to coffee.
When we were finally allowed back into our humble abode, we collapsed, exhausted after hours of upset and evacuation drama.
The crane still stands, five hours later, and the inhabitants of coral towers are homeless still, sleeping on cots in our basement. Outside my window are various and sundry fire trucks, police cars and what looks like official vehicles with reels of wire and ladder affixed to their backsides.
And here I sit, tapping away on my dilapidated keyboard, grateful for my cozy bedroom, my roommate and my pretty pink fingertips…in case you couldn’t guess that the pink ones were mine.

[1] Yes, I take hip hop dance because I am a fabulous and oh so cool skinny white chick

New York City today is crisp and autumnal, without much sun but with a beautiful blue sky and a breeze that beckons Fall forward to show himself fully. People are wearing sweaters now and campus is littered with cups of Orens as opposed to the iced filled, whipped cream topped concoctions that were the norm but a few weeks back.
I awoke this morning to an array of emails and missed calls, and found myself rushing through the beautiful breeze, late to class and with a cloud filled mind. All through my courses today, concerns and questions congregated and churned about within my head, creating confusion and fear.

On my walk home up Broadway, I was motoring along, still turning thoughts over and over, and feeling disconnected from my physical self; as if I was mostly made up of thought, and simply going through the motions to get myself to where I physically needed to be. I had chosen to feature Gwen Stefani on my ipod for the day and her hectic, fast paced beat was thumping around in the background of my brain as I mentally jumped around from one concern to the next. My pace was rushed for no reason, and the faster I went the more I saw my surroundings as spinning me around, shaking me up, and throwing me off balance. I thundered along, dodging briefcases and construction workers, virtually flying past the window of Jay nails where forty something year old women watch the world go by whilst they sit beneath ultra violet nail polish driers.

Onward I charged approaching Grace Church and almost passing it by…that is until, from behind the entangled and intertwined issues that were cluttering up my mind, came a clear voice, telling me to turn around.
I ignored it.
That is until it spoke again, and I found myself, turned her around, and turned off the ipod.
I entered the church, still feeling like someone outside of my self. In place of my pink sneakers, were my favorite pair of pumps and they sounded disruptive and discordant, clacking towards my favorite pew amidst silence and prayer.

It never ceases to amaze me how that chapel can be so quiet and still when just out side the doors, beyond its walls, the whole city is spinning. Why is it so hard to sit and take peace? To slow down, or stop; seemingly simple acts, and ones that now, after years of living in the fast lane, I am learning how to do. Sitting today, in my pew, I took five minutes peace and in doing so, shaped the rest of my afternoon. The street that I walked out onto was the same that I had sought refuge from, but the way I looked at it had changed.

In Washington Square Park these days, at the foot of Garibaldi’s statue and across from the fountain, there is oftentimes a set up where a smiling man sits, slapping casually on a bongo drum. Out before him are spread about a dozen brightly colored hoola hoops, there for whomever may feel inspired throughout the day. On this particular crisp and chilly afternoon I walked out of the library and towards Fifth Avenue, crossing the park and listening to Neil Young on my ipod. In the air was the distinct and unique wisp of breeze that signals the onset of autumn. As I passed the bongo drummer by I noticed that, for the most part, his hoola hoops lay unused, rings of color against a gray and dying day. There was one hoop however, that was in use, and this one by a very willing participant. Her bouncy blonde curls blowing in the late afternoon breeze, a little girl was hoola-ing ecstatically, giggling as she moved to the drumbeat. In that moment, still walking along on my way, against the backdrop of my college campus and the sound of Neil’s Harvest Moon floating up into my ears, I saw myself in her smile.

Fellow blogger and one of my favorite women in this wide world, the lovely Lady J Colozzi, recently wrote of reclaiming her inner child in so beautiful a fashion (see: http://borderhopping.blogspot.com/) that I felt inspired to do the same.

My life is littered with photographs of myself and my family in our happiest times, the years before dislocation, divorce, and financial strife. For a long time I have shied away from looking at these images. Yet, for some reason, at this moment in my life, I find myself ready to weed away the overgrown and overprotective shell that I have made for myself. Oftentimes, I can almost see myself from outside of my own skin, a contained woman, pulled together and tied up neatly in a little bow. As I face my past, I find myself loosening up and reconnecting with that little girl who is my inner child.
And boy have I missed her.

For years, I have kept her bottled away without even knowing it. Where is she I would wonder? Where is that sparkly little gal who dances across the scenes of my childhood photos? She is on her way, fighting her way up from beneath years of maturity and containment, joyously hacking away the barriers that time and tumult have created.
Blonde and curly, messy, dancing constantly, jumping with arms outstretched, always hoping to fly, and oftentimes reduced to fits of giggles for no apparent reason.

Evidence of her arrival may be found in a pair of pink sneakers that I wear practically everywhere I go. Shoes have always been an avenue through which I express myself, and this pair is no exception. It feels to me, that with these pale pink and playful little lace ups, my inner Allie is shining through with a twinkling little wink and a promise to appear more and more in the future…I am so glad she is back.